


Puzzle

by edylue



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abusive Relationships, F/M, Gaslighting, Narcissism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2018-11-02 08:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10940946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edylue/pseuds/edylue
Summary: Narcissist, narcissist—he is a narcissist.





	Puzzle

**Author's Note:**

> inspiration: tony stark and pepper potts
> 
> request: something that is what it isn't

He spends forty-five minutes getting ready each morning. He talks to himself like someone is always in his presence, taking notes on everything coming out of his mouth, no matter the level of importance or intellect. The words slipping out reflect the wreckage of his mind—a load of chaos with a few peace marches here and there. It's a mismatched puzzle no one wants to put together, much less open the box.

The couch becomes his resting place for the passing days. He lies untouched, muscles tense, brow furrowed, lips moving at a speed of a lightning bolt striking the earth a few yards away. The discussion today is about his father. "He was  _never_  around" is the only phrase managing to be coherent in his conversation to the woman hovering above the couch. He grabs a hold of the pillow near his feet, melting into the form. He mumbles into the soft fabric stretched over the feathers, and the woman lets out a gentle sigh.

"You're not making any sense."

He whispers something like a frustrated " _I_  am!  _You're_  not comprehending what I'm saying." Dark fingers grasp around the edge of the cushion, and deep brown eyes peek around the surface, surveying the woman standing above him. "You seemed to understand what I was talking about this morning—"

"—what are you talking—"

"—you were replying and all—"

"—I wasn't even here this morning."

Eyelids slowly close over the irises. A sigh escapes his lips as he brings the pillow back up to his face. He exchanges secrets to the inanimate object, as if the item were the only thing left in the world to listen to his voice and fully understand it.

He doesn't hear the woman leave her post, doesn't hear her stomp around their house and grab her cell phone, dialing in a number of an individual he doesn't know. Everything she does revolves around him—his health, his hobbies, his work, him, him,  _him._  She is obsessed, and he fears for  _her_ well-being. He brings this up when he's brushing his teeth before bed. He doesn't get a reply, thus turning him into a machine of master rambles and frantic urgencies.

The blood floods through his veins like a dam that has broken. His heart is a treadmill on high with his bedroom becoming the runner's sore thigh and calf muscles.

Paint peels off the walls after a quick slide of a knife lifts the pigments from the wood. Lamps and a television set rest in a pile of broken glass from the busted window. Stray pieces of the sharp material lodges their way into his arms, and after much altercation, he digs each shard out with blunt fingernails and bleached teeth.

The ceiling fan is a whirlwind of rattling sounds and headaches that lull him to sleep. He pictures a cow jumping over the moon, a cat playing a fiddle, and all those silly childhood nursery rhymes he never got to enjoy.

Birds chirping pierce his tired brain to wake and function. He regrets opening his eyes to the sight of the woman standing over him, a look of utter disgust and pure horror.

"What?" he slurs out, tongue dry and limbs numb.

"What have you done?" she cries, arms rising in a wave at the scene he has caused.

"What have  _you_ done?" he counters, slowly standing on his feet. He stumbles and catches himself against the damaged bed frame. "You can't just leave me alone like that."

"I didn't! I was—"

"—I can't even—"

"—in the next room! I tried to—"

"—listen to you right now. Do you even hear—"

"—come in here, but, hey, the door was locked!—"

"—yourself when you talk, I mean—"

"—I'm done."

The definition of ice floats down and wraps itself around him, chilling every fiber of his being. A million and one things are racing through his head, but the only sound that escapes his mouth is "You look really pretty today."

Flashes of pale skin and blonde hair is common in the next hour as the woman is gathering up her belongings, leaving him to clean up the mess  _she_  made  _him_ do.

"I'm not coming back until you get everything sorted out," she tells him.

"Who's going to make me waffles when I wake up now?" he retorts.

The closing door is the first gunshot fired in a battle. He is the one who gets shot, and he falls to the linoleum floor underneath his feet, pressing his cheek against the floor and asking it what he ever did to cause this.

His brain has to set itself to full power to enable him to maneuver about the house, picking up the broken glass and ruined mementos. This takes him three hours. His feet are killing him, and the cuts in his arms are freshly opened and pouring his life essence down onto every surface he passes. Curses and the like crawls out his lungs; the forty-five minutes of his morning routine consists of him yelling at his reflection and squirting toothpaste everywhere except the bristles on his toothbrush.

The couch becomes his savior throughout the day. The pillows are the woman, and the wetness touching his eyelashes is just for the pain of his stomach roaring.

He gets a dozen phone calls—all from her. She begs for forgiveness, and he tells her no. He is the king, and she is his jester. He likes watching her dance circles around his bare feet as he rests on his throne, twirling his scepter and shoving down a sandwich.

When the clock strikes 10:23 p.m., the mattress and blankets plead for him. He fulfills their wishes and doesn't leave their comfort for the next month.

He wakes up on Christmas day to the noise of pots and pans clattering together. His feet don't work right. His legs are thin and resemble a bird's. He can't walk, so he yells and shouts and sobs into the cold air surrounding him.

The woman stands in the doorway. "You're an idiot." She's all smiles despite her words.

He stares.

"Are you going to apologize, or am I just making you breakfast for nothing?"

"Why should _I_  apologize," he starts, "when this is entirely  _your_  fault?"

Hastily, she turns on her heel, but returns to the kitchen, for the noises of the pots and pans begin again.

His morning routine is cut from forty-five minutes to five minutes of trying to get up from the bed, to no avail.

The woman finds him curled into a ball under the covers. He appears asleep, but his lips start to move, and a question about the weather springs up. She stares at him, eyes softly turning into mush. "It's snowing."

"It's Christmas."

She helps him sit and feeds him ripped pieces of slightly burnt toast.

"Are you okay?" she asks, putting a charred portion to his mouth.

He leans in and takes it, loudly crunching on the bread and wrinkling his nose when it slides down his throat. "Sure, whatever." He averts his gaze, only responding to the touch of more food being probed against his lips.

After his meal, she guides him to the bathroom. The cool porcelain of the sink scratches at the thin material of the t-shirt over his torso, and he groans at the reflection greeting him. He is disgusting and horrible and deserves to be tortured, to be killed, but he turns to the woman; with a sarcastic smirk, he asks, "Don't I look handsome?"

"Yeah, yeah," she says, a grin growing on her face. She fixes his toothbrush for him. He watches her in the mirror, eyes becoming unfocused more than they need be. Her hip nudges against his. "What're you thinking about?"

He mumbles something that makes no sense and proceeds to scrub off the month-old plaque from his teeth, forcing the gums to bleed.

They sit on the couch and watch Christmas movies. He is silent the whole time, unmoving, eyes fixated on the TV screen, completely tense.

When it hits midnight, she kisses him on the forehead and leads him to the bedroom. "You didn't really talk today," she points out, tucking the blanket under his chin. "Is there something on your mind?"

"No."

She joins him under the covers and sleeps—not so much him.

His strength has become renovated over the night, and he manages to go into the bathroom to follow through his daily routine. A ghastly reflection meets him again, and with a sigh, he mumbles, "Narcissus," before rubbing his bloodshot eyes and brushing his teeth.


End file.
